


Stone by Day

by Mighty_Ant



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), Gargoyles (Cartoon)
Genre: Accidental Gargoyle Acquisition, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Found Family, Gargoyles Lore, Gargoyles Universe, Human/Monster Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mighty_Ant/pseuds/Mighty_Ant
Summary: Gosalyn is a gargoyle without a clan.Drake is a man without a family.They are two people from different worlds, brought together by chance and sticking together by choice. Not that Drake ever imagined himself as the father of a little girl, much less one with wings.
Relationships: Drake Mallard/Launchpad McQuack
Comments: 51
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can thank based-ducks on tumblr for this craziness, their DuckTales/Gargoyles AU art inspired me to create this!  
> [](based-ducks.tumblr.com)

Gosalyn spends her nights following the human. 

She hadn’t meant to start, really.

Downtown is so bright, with skyscrapers and giant LED billboards and so many human eyes that she finds herself sticking to the more shadowed parts of the city for safety: the warehouse district, the docks, condemned buildings. She’s drawn to the bay more and more often, mesmerized by the play of moonlight against the sharpness of the black water and how it just seems to go on and on, Duckburg’s distant shore mocking her with its deceptive nearness.

On this night she edges just a little bit closer to the populated streets, her mind on where she’ll get her next meal. She’s hidden in shadow on a low rooftop when she sees the snap of a black wing out of the corner of her eye. She leaps to her feet, heart pounding, and takes after it without a moment's hesitation, gliding across the spaces between rooftops in desperate pursuit. She catches a brief glimpse of their wings again, disappearing over the side of a building. She doesn’t dare call out lest she’s wrong.

Not a moment later she hears the reverberation of a gargoyle's roar. Nearly forgoing caution altogether she runs to the edge of the building, smiling for the first time in days because she’s certain that her loneliness will end. 

But it’s no gargoyle. 

A human man rides astride a tremendous motorcycle, a long dark cape fluttering behind him. His bike roars like some great beast as it takes off down the street and Gosalyn watches him go with a hollowness opening up inside her. 

However, her curiosity is not dimmed. 

Gosalyn catches up to the strange human, keeping pace with his bike while remaining out of sight. She has never seen a human like this before, clothed with night and a mask on his face. Forgoing dinner, she pursues him on wing and foot in a dizzying path through the city. He sticks to the dark, where there is less noise and less people, and for all that she is grateful she doesn’t understand why. Until she hears the woman scream. 

She smells blood before she sees it. Losing track of the strange man, Gosalyn descends into the shadow of a fire escape and freezes. 

There are two women pressed against the side of a building, one of them crouching beside an unconscious man on the ground. His face is bloody. Two men encroach on them, big and broad, with glinting human weapons in their fists. A gun and a knife, she recognizes. 

There is an explosion of purple smoke at the end of the alley and a menacing voice bounces off the walls from every direction at once. “I am the terror that flaps in the night…”

The human with a knife looks frightened. He grabs the arm of the one with a gun and says something Gosalyn cannot hear. The second man shakes him off. 

“I am the revenge that is best served cold…”

The man with a gun fires into the smoke. Each _bang_ makes Gosalyn’s heart stop. 

“I am...Darkwing!” 

Emerging from the shadows like he was made from them, the masked man, _Darkwing_ , grabs the wrist of the man with the gun and twists it so harshly he drops his weapon. Then Darkwing punches him once in the stomach and once in the temple, and the man crumples to the ground where he stands. 

The man with a knife throws himself at Darkwing with a yell, but he spins in place, his leg arcing up to kick the knife out of his hand. Then he takes a step forward and knocks out the second man just as he did the first. 

The fight is over in seconds.

Gosalyn watches, enthralled, as Darkwing approaches the humans he just saved. “How’s he doing?” he asks the women as he crouches beside the injured man. 

“He’s—he’s waking up,” one of them says, and the man on the ground groans. 

“The police will be here any minute,” Darkwing says. “Think you can take care of him ‘till then?”

The other woman nods. “Y-yes.”

He nods sharply and stands back up. He pulls something off his belt that Gosalyn initially mistakes for a gun, but it turns out to be a grappling hook, like the kind they use in spy movies, and she gasps in delight at the sight of it. She realizes her mistake too late. 

The man hears her. 

Stiffening, he jerks his head to look at the fire escape she’s hiding on. He reaches for something else on his belt. 

Gosalyn’s heartbeat thunders in her ears, near deafening. She doesn’t dare move, knowing she’ll be spotted if she does. Several endless seconds pass, and she holds her breath for all of them. 

“Is everything okay?” one of the women asks. 

Darkwing stops glaring at Gosalyn’s hiding place long enough to glance over his shoulder and she makes her escape. 

Scurrying up the side of the building in an instant, she dashes across the roof and takes off into the night. She gulps down cool air, feeling lightheaded, her nerves abuzz. She hasn’t felt this alive in weeks, and it scares her as much as it excites her. The strange man with a mask is...different from the other humans. He helps them. She’d almost started to believe they didn’t care about anything other than themselves.

If Gosalyn is more careful in the future, maybe it’ll be okay? Maybe she can keep following this...Darkwing.

  
  
  


If she’s honest with herself, which she tries not to make a habit of, it’s the humans that scare her the most with their cameras and their loudness and their cruelty. So badly does she fear being caught unawares at daybreak that she finds an alcove in which to roost a full hour before sunrise, curling up as tightly as she can manage in places humans never venture or would never think to look. 

Grandfather had been fascinated by humans. Even as they undertook their seemingly endless journey to Duckburg, he had them roosting on the rooftops of museums and theaters, houses and school buildings. 

“Curiosity and caution, Gosalyn,” he often told her, as they snuck into museums to look at exhibits or into theaters to watch performances and films. “We can learn much from the humans but they must never learn of us.”

“Are they that bad?” Gosalyn had asked. They’d been watching a family eat dinner in the next house over and her chest had given a pang at the sight of one of the mothers helping their young son climb into her lap.

“Not all of them,” Grandfather had allowed. “But they fear that which they do not understand, and that fear can often turn to violence. So we watch and we learn. That is all.”

He returned to their own dinner, a small collection of roasted chicken liberated from the nearby supermarket, but it took Gosalyn a longer moment to do the same. She found it difficult to stop staring at the golden light spilling out of the windows, entranced by how warm and inviting it seemed compared to the empty darkness around them. 

“Don’t worry, it won’t be just the two of us for much longer,” Grandfather would assure her when her periods of melancholy lengthened and the distance between them and Duckburg shortened. “Don't forget, there’s an entire clan waiting for us.” 

She and Grandfather made it as far as St.Canard. They were only meant to rest for a day or two, so Gosalyn could gather her strength before trying to make the glide across the bay because she was unable to do it alone. 

The Audubon Bay Bridge is a haunting silhouette, wind whistling past its tall spires. She tries scaling it once in a desperate attempt to cross, but the wind is so strong it knocks her into the bay. Having learned her lesson, she spends most nights staring at the bridge and the bay and the distant, twinkling lights of Duckburg that seem farther away from her than ever. It makes her feel very small and very, very alone. 

On one such night, she sees Darkwing for the second time. 

The towers of the bridge are always alight, but it never occurred to Gosalyn that someone might live there. Those are perches fit for gargoyles, cold and far from civilization, unsuited for humans who cluster on top of each other in teeming, noisy hordes. But one night Gosalyn roosts closer to the bridge than usual, to the point that it’s the first thing she sees when she wakes. The sky is still purple, not fully dark with night, when there’s movement on the leftmost tower. 

She hears the familiar roar of a powerful engine and smiles, wide and incredulous at the sight before her. Darkwing emerges from the base of the tower through a hidden entrance, moving dark and fast like a gargoyles in flight. He drops down among the traffic on the bridge, weaving around cars at breakneck speed in the direction of St. Canard proper.

Gosalyn stands and spreads her small wings, intent on following him. She spares Duckburg one final glance before she gives chase. 

Names are human things. They are the embodiment of their urge to control, to limit and categorize all in their world that deserves to be free. 

The gargoyle way was to be nameless; her elder taught her just so. It was the reason he was called elder and she, hatchling, though she was eighteen years past her hatch day. In all of her memory they had only ever been two, so the thought of names never entered her mind. 

But then they embarked on their journey, where she saw more humans in a day than she had seen in the sum of her entire life and she found herself enthralled. Human towns and homes and cars, humans big and small and young and old. She knew that her elder was just as interested, if not more. 

Early into their journey, they hid in a cave deep in the woods and her elder brought her a handful of stolen books (as well as an old car battery, a cell phone, and a green hoodie).

“I believe the human hatchlings read these,” he’d told her, but she was already taking the books out of his hands, staring raptly at the bright colors and the strange titles on the covers. “Once we’re in Duckburg, I’ll teach you Latin and Greek next,” he promised, chuckling as she immediately devoured the first book, a story about a witch, a lion, and a wardrobe. 

They lingered in the cave for two more nights, waiting for clearer skies. On the second night, her elder returned with game he’d caught in nearby traps and more human curios. Meanwhile, she had a question on her mind. 

“I finished my books,” she said, closing the last with great finality. She was wearing the green hoodie her elder had brought on the first night, finding it preferable over her old deer-hide shawl.

“Oh?” her elder replied, picking his novelties up off the ground as the rabbits he’d skinned roasted over the fire. This time he’d brought them a textbook on chemistry and another on automobiles; clearly he’d returned to the library. “Did you enjoy them?”

“I did,” she replied. The crackling of the fire filled the silence she allowed to overtake them as she gnawed at her lower beak in indecision. 

“I’ve decided I want a name,” she said at last. 

Her elder glanced up from Organic Chemistry 101, blinking. “A name?” he said. He didn’t look upset, to her great relief. Just curious. “May I ask why?”

She shrugged, carefully avoiding his eye. “Names...seem to matter. They give things—people—more worth. I know it’s only the two of us now, but who knows how many gargoyles are in Duckburg! Maybe—maybe they all have names too.” She willed herself to sit up straight and look at her elder head on. “I’ve decided my name will be Gosalyn.”

“Gosalyn?” her elder repeated, considering. He held his hand up to his chin. “Gosalyn,” he said again, sounding it out. Finally he smiled. “A fine name. I daresay, we’ll make a human of you yet.”

“Never!” Gosalyn retorted with a playful growl, and pounced on her elder. 

He allowed her her roughhousing for a few minutes, before pulling her off his back with a chuckle. “Alright, that’s enough, before you land yourself in the fire.”

She grinned, fangs glittering in the firelight, and went to collect her books. 

Her elder cleared his throat behind her. 

“I wonder, Gosalyn, have you chosen a name for me as well?”

She fumbled with her books, dropping _A Wizard of Earthsea._ “Um... maybe?” Gosalyn replied quietly as she crouched to recover it. 

“May I know what it is?” her elder asked patiently. 

Gosalyn kept her back turned. “G-Grandfather,” she murmured, like it was something shameful. 

He made a thoughtful sound. “A human title. You know that we do not share blood?”

She nodded stiffly. “I know. And it’s not about blood, it’s more of a...a feeling. I know it’s a human thing, but—”

“Grand father,” he said again. “It sounds rather regal.”

“Yeah?” Gosalyn said hopefully. 

“Indeed,” he replied, his smile warm. “Now come look at this, this book has an incredibly fascinating chapter on stereochemistry.” 

  
  


Gosalyn follows Darkwing for the next two weeks.

Every night is different, excitingly, dangerously so. Gosalyn had gotten used to routine, to staring numbingly as humanity zigzags beneath her in far away fervor. Now every night is an adventure. Where will Darkwing go? A dingy alley to chase after a purse-thief? Speed down the street in pursuit of dangerous biker gang? An abandoned toy warehouse where a frightening man in a jester’s costume lies in wait?

She has to get more creative with how she hides, how quickly she can slip in and out of a room without detection. Every one of Grandfather’s teachings are put the test and she gets stronger, learns to glide for longer. 

A week in, she wonders, briefly, if maybe she can make the crossing to Duckburg now. She thinks of what Grandfather would want and the uncertainty that awaits her in Duckburg. If the clan there was really so great, wouldn’t they have come looking for them by now? Did they even care about her and Grandfather? 

In St. Canard she has Darkwing, and it may not be much but it’s the most she’s had since she lost Grandfather. 

It’s halfway through the second week that Gosalyn realizes there’s a name for what Darkwing is: a superhero. 

One night he follows him to a rooftop where he appears to be waiting for someone, if his crossed arms and tapping foot are any indication. After a few minutes, a rumble of powerful engines has Gosalyn looking up, rather than down. 

A human in robotic armor soars through the sky, smoke trailing from the twin rockets on his back. 

Gosalyn covers her beak with both hands to muffle her gasp. 

As isolated as she has lived, even _she_ knows who Gizmoduck is. There had been talk of Duckburg’s hero many states over, overheard in snatches of conversation and bits of radio and television. Grandfather picked up newspapers in every city they roosted in for more than a day, and he was even more fascinated by Gizmoduck than she was. 

“A mechanical marvel,” Grandfather had said whenever Gizmoduck was on the cover of the newspaper or a magazine. “For humans to have achieved flight is one thing, but this suit is something else entirely. What I wouldn’t give to see it up close.”

Gizmoduck lands on the rooftop beside Darkwing, a smile lighting up the half of his face that’s visible. 

“How are you, Darkwing?” he says. His voice isn’t as deep as she’s heard on the news. Though it makes him less imposing, Gosalyn decides she likes it. 

Darkwing scowls, an expression she’s usually seen him reserve for criminals who don’t remember his name. “You’re late,” he retorts. 

Gizmoduck chuckles, rubbing the back of his armored neck. “Sorry about that. There was a five-car pile up on the bridge on my way here. Nobody was hurt, _gracias a Dios,_ but I stuck around to make sure everyone was okay and the insurance stuff was sorted out without any fistfights.” 

Darkwing somehow scowls harder. “Well, I’m here. Why’d you call me, Tinker Toy?”

“You haven’t come to a meeting in a while,” Gizmoduck says hesitantly, “I was...the Guild was getting a little worried." He chuckles, though the sound is strained. "I had to talk Hercules down from tearing St. Canard apart looking for you. He’s pretty convinced you’ve met some horrible fate.”

“Well clearly, I’m fine,” Darkwing says, taking a step forward and then another. “So you can get out of my city and tell Herc not to get his toga in a twist. Actually, I don't care what you do. Just get out of my city.”

Gizmoduck rolls backward as Darkwing encroaches on his space. He raises his hands defensively. “I'm not trying to tell you what to do. I just wanted to make sure you were alright." 

“Don’t think I can take care of myself without a fancy suit?” Darkwing sneers. 

“That’s not what I said,” Gizmoduck replies sternly. “I’m not your enemy, Darkwing. None of us are. I’m here because the Justice Guild is important and you’re one of its members. More than that, you’re my friend.”

Darkwing flinches almost imperceptibly. “I don’t have friends,” he says. 

“You do,” Gizmoduck insists. 

Darkwing doesn’t seem to have a ready answer. 

Gizmoduck’s rockets deploy in a swish of metal. “The next meeting’s this Tuesday at seven. We’re all looking forward to seeing you.” He disappears into the night at a speed that astounds, leaving Darkwing frowning and Gosalyn gaping in his wake. 

  
  


In her three weeks of following Darkwing, she has never seen him acting so strangely.

And that’s saying something considering he’s strange even by human standards. Gosalyn has caught him practicing one liners out loud, singing to himself, and even acting out arguments with imaginary people. Less common, but not as much as Gosalyn would like, are the silences. 

In between endless stakeout and seemingly-grueling cases, there are times when he’ll hold his hat in his hands, staring at nothing with an empty expression. In those moments, Gosalyn will remember that save for Gizmoduck, Darkwing speaks to no one but himself. He’ll remind her of Grandfather and the dark moods he would sometimes enter when the memories of their old clan surfaced strong and threatened to drag him under.

But tonight is different. Tonight, Darkwing is behaving...erratically. He takes routes he doesn’t normally take, drives faster than fast, and forgets to put his helmet on half the time. He resolves a territory dispute between two rival gangs without even breaking out his gas gun and Megavolt gets a devastating punch to the face before he can even start monologuing. 

Gosalyn starts to get worried and that worry only mounts when she follows Darkwing to a dark, abandoned building on the east side of town. She lands on the roof and watches him from over the edge as he parks his motorcycle in the dingy alley and marches through the doors of the building with great purpose. She debates trying to look in on him using the fire escape, but the metal itself is so corroded she’s unsure if it’ll even hold her weight. 

So she resolves to wait. 

The minutes drag on, punctuated by the occasional blip of a siren or honking horns. She peers over the edge more than once to make sure Darkwing hasn’t somehow left without her noticing. But she's gotten too comfortable, too confident in her security. She doesn’t stop to check that the only entrance to the roof has been secured and doesn’t realize she’s walked into an ambush until it happens. 

“Gotcha!” 

A hand clamps around her wrist like iron, twisting her arm painfully behind her back. Before she can cry out, she’s been shoved against the low wall marking the roof’s edge, her cheek grinding against the brick. She scrabbles against the wall with her free hand, digging shallow trenches into the stone with her claws, and she can barely breath, can barely think. 

“Who are you?” Darkwing barks behind her. “Who are you and why have you been following me?”

“Let me go!” Gosalyn shrieks. She flares her wings open wide, startling her captor into releasing her with a yelp. 

“What—a _kid?”_

She runs to the far end of the roof, clutching her aching arm to her chest. Her cheek smarts and her eyes burn with tears. Still, she judges the breeze and determines it will be enough to bear her far away from here, somewhere far away from humans where she can stew in her own stupidity in peace. How could she be foolish enough to believe he would be different? They’re all alike, every human, even—

“Wait!” Darkwing calls after her, sounding frantic. “Please, wait.”

—him. 

Gosalyn falls into a crouch where the shadow of the low wall envelopes her, the added darkness an additional layer of protection. She bares her fangs, but can’t prevent the way her eyes glitter and burn with tears. 

She’d trusted him, fool that she was. 

Darkwing is rising shakily to his feet, his hat lying on the ground behind him and his hair in disarray without it. His face is thrown into shadow by the glare of his raised flashlight, and his eyes are very wide behind his mask. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, raising a hand as if to quell a frightened animal. “If I’d known you were just a-a kid—”

“You hurt me!” Gosalyn snaps. When she tries to growl her voice breaks and she hates herself a little. “I didn’t do anything to you and you _hurt_ me!”

That Darkwing looks as scared as she feels is of little solace. She’s not just frightened, she’s _furious_ and furious with herself more than anything. For hoping that this time would be different, hoping she wouldn’t have to be alone, hoping Grandfather would come back. Her and her stupid hope. 

“I know,” Darkwing murmurs. He takes slow steps toward her, telegraphing his movements. He's stowed his flashlight and his hands are splayed at his sides, palms facing out, in a position that is clearly meant to be one of submission. But Gosalyn has watched him disarm opponents twice his size and retrieve his weapons in the span of a blink. She knows better than to let down her guard. 

“I know and I’m sorry,” he says again, and in all the time she’s followed him he’s never sounded like that. Sounded pained when he hasn’t been injured. “When you’re in my line of work pretty much everyone is out to get you. I've learned to always be on the defensive. But this time I was wrong.”

“You were,” Gosalyn says stiffly. She sniffs before she can stop herself, wiping her beak with the back of her hand when tears make her nose run.

Darkwing’s expression softens. He looks less gaunt. “Why don’t we start over?” he says, kneeling about two yards away. 

Gosalyn’s wings twitch. “Y-you have to take off all your weapons first. Or—or I’m leaving.”

He raises his hands placatingly. “Okay. No problem.” He removes his utility belt, which she knows houses his gas gun, extra gas canisters, and grappling hook attachment. She’s shaking her head before he even puts them down.

“And the gas gun on your back," she demands. "The knife in your boot, too."

Darkwing gapes at her for a moment. “How long have you been following me?” he asks as he removes the items she requested. They go into a pile between the two of them, just off to the side. 

Gosalyn wraps her wings around herself, only slightly mollified. “Three weeks,” she replies. 

He whistles. “Damn. I only realized someone was following me a week ago. You’re good.”

She ducks her head, hunkering down in the shadow. She can barely handle speaking to him, much less receive compliments. 

“Right,” Darkwing says, clapping his hands together. He winces along with Gosalyn at the sudden noise. “Introductions.” 

“You’re Darkwing,” Gosalyn says quietly. “You’re a superhero.”

“Yeah,” he replies with a chagrined smile, “I’m a superhero.” He clears his throat. “And, um. And you are?”

“I’m Gosalyn,” she says, stuttering. It’s her first time introducing herself to anyone. “I’m...I’m a gargoyle.”

“A gargoyle,” Darkwing repeats, blinking slowly. He leans back, nearly falling out of his kneel and onto his backside. “Okay. Sure. And uh, Gosalyn, are there...are there more of you?” He looks heavenward, as if expecting to find an entire horde of gargoyles descending on his head.

If only it were so. 

“No,” she says, and the word is like broken glass as it scrapes past her throat. “No, I’m the only one here.”

Darkwing looks back at her very quickly. She can’t read the expression behind his mask. “What about your—your parents?” 

Gosalyn shrugs, looking down at the cracks in the concrete. “Gargoyles don’t have parents. Not like humans do. The clan raises us, but...but Grandfather and I were the only ones left.”

“Your grandfather,” Darkwing says, leaning forward, “what happened to him?”

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore,” Gosalyn mutters, hunching in on herself. 

Darkwing blinks, expression clearing as though surfacing from a trance. “Right. No, of course. Sorry, kid. But...wait.” He’s leaning forward again, but his brow is pinched in worry instead of curiosity. “Are you living alone? You’re...god, you’re not even ten.”

“I’m eighteen,” Gosalyn snaps, but immediately flounders under his hard stare. “In human years,” she tacks on in a mumble. 

“Do you have somewhere to live?” He implores. “Somewhere safe?”

Gosalyn finds herself swiftly becoming uncomfortable with this line of questioning. She follows Darkwing with the implicit promise that she would _only_ follow him. Humans are dangerous, this human especially, and interacting with him has only proven it. At least, that’s what Gosalyn tells herself.

In reality, she’s imagined how their first meeting dozens of times. She’ll impresses him with her gliding, her speed and agility. She’ll leap out to save him from an attack he wasn’t anticipating, securing his respect. He asks her to be his sidekick, his Quiverwing. 

It’s never gone like this. She’s never imagined him soft, quiet, and concerned for her safety. She doesn’t expect questions, for him to want to know her. 

It’s not yet dawn, but Gosalyn feels like she’s running out of time. 

She unfurls her wings and takes a step back. Obviously, Darkwing notices. 

“Hey,” he says, reaching out to her. “Gosalyn, what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. Humans are dangerous, humans aren’t to be trusted. Her stupid fantasies are just that. She needs to leave before she lets them drag her down any further.

“I—I need to go,” she whispers. 

“Is there something wrong?” Darkwing looks behind him, brow drawn and expression wary. He sees nothing, because the threat is standing right in front of her. 

Gosalyn takes another step away from him. And another. She’s climbed the low wall around the edge of the building by the time Darkwing turns around. 

His eyes go wide in alarm. 

“Kid!”

 _I’m sorry_ , she wants to say. 

_This wasn’t supposed to happen,_ she wants to tell him. 

_Pretend you never saw me,_ she almost begs. 

In the end she says nothing at all. With one leap she’s in free fall, and a strong gust of wind is carrying her away from the rooftop and over a dozen others. Darkwing calls after her, calls her name, and his voice grows fainter and fainter the further the wind bears her. 

  
  


She and Grandfather were only supposed to stay in St. Canard for two days. 

But Grandfather was tired. More than that, he was exhausted. Spent. Their long journey had sapped him of his energy, his strength, and whenever they stopped he had to rest for longer and longer each time.

“I was an old gargoyle to begin with,” he’d often joke. “This trip’s practically aged me by another fifty years.” 

So two days in St. Canard turned into four. 

“Won’t the Duckburg gargoyles wonder where we are?” Gosalyn asked one night. She’d been the one to procure breakfast for them and had amassed a small collection of hot dogs, pretzels, and two whole pizzas she’d found in a dumpster behind a restaurant. 

Grandfather shook his head. “We’re ahead of schedule, ha—Gosalyn. Rest assured, we won’t be worrying them.” 

While Grandfather gathered his strength, Gosalyn explored St. Canard. Before now they hadn’t stopped in any large cities for more than a handful of hours, so everything was incredibly new and bright to her, never mind the city’s ugly face. For one, the sheer quantity of humans astounded her. She imagined what it would be like to have hundreds, thousands, of beings who looked just like her living and breathing around her. She was sure that she would never be lonely again. 

So too was she fascinated by the gleaming river of cars that snaked among the tall buildings, starbright and seemingly endless. She amused herself by making faces in the mirrored surfaces of the skyscrapers constructed of nothing but glass, gliding around the tallest of them by leaping off their roofs. It was easy to forgot all about Grandfather’s warnings to stay hidden, to stick to the shadows. Everything was so loud and big and exciting and she just had to experience it all. In the end, she would pay for her carelessness. 

Grandfather joined her on the fourth night. He was still weaker than he’d like, but he managed to lead her to the Audubon Bay Bridge. 

“A feat of engineering, that,” he told her, his voice rich with awe. “And at the end of it is our new home.”

The lights of another city, while fewer than St. Canard, twinkled with promise from the opposite side of the bay. 

Gosalyn gasped. “That’s Duckburg? Why don’t we go now? It doesn’t look that far away. We could be there tonight!”

Grandfather chuckled, stilling her excitement motion with a hand on her shoulder. “It’s further away than it looks, Gosalyn. And the wind on the bay is something fierce, you’d be thrown into the water in an instant if you were to try it alone. Once I’ve gotten my strength back we’ll make the crossing together.” 

A helicopter rumbled overhead, with a massive, blinding searchlight panning across the rooftops. Grandfather tucked them into an alcove and the helicopter passed them by, neither of them sparing it another thought. 

When they awoke on the fifth night, it was raining. 

Grandfather was immediately displeased. “You won’t be able to glide in this rain,” he said, frowning. 

“A little rain won’t stop me,” Gosalyn scoffed. She spread her wings as far as they would go and hopped in place, brimming with energy. Her hair and clothes were already starting to soak through, but cold never bothered gargoyles much, unless under extreme temperatures. “You’ll see! I can fly around this city with my eyes closed!” 

“Be that as it may, you’ve never flown in wind and rain before,” Grandfather chastised gently. “Let me get a feel of it and if I decide it isn’t so bad, we’ll try crossing the bay.” 

“We have to cross tonight,” Gosalyn insisted, a pleading note in her voice. “Our new clan is waiting for us!” 

“They’ll still be there tomorrow,” Grandfather said, “Patience, Grandchild. I’ll pick up breakfast as well, how does that sound?”

For a moment, Gosalyn was unable to speak. Though he had deigned to be called Grandfather, never had he returned the sentiment in such a way. He’d claimed her as his own without fanfare or ceremony, which was so like him she almost laughed.

“Fine,” she tried to grumble, but she was smiling too widely to be successful. 

Grandfather nodded, perfectly neutral, and likely unaware of what his words meant to her. “I will return soon. Stay out of sight.”

With much genuine grumbling, Gosalyn retreated from the roof’s edge. The building they had chosen had a large shed atop it, crumbling and abandoned, and locked as well. They hadn’t bothered with getting it open, so she simply huddled beneath its awning in a bid to shield herself from the rain. 

A sojourn to a dump before they’d reached St. Canard had yielded a wristwatch with a cracked face, which Gosalyn used to keep track of the passage of time until Grandfather’s return. After half an hour, four massive black helicopters swept overhead, their stark white searchlights slicing through the dark and rain like lightning. Gosalyn hunched over a bit more until they passed, only idly curious as to their intent. She’d quickly learned that St. Canard was renowned for its crime and though they’d only been there a few nights, the sounds of sirens and warnings blared from police helicopters had become a familiar backdrop.

However, on that night the pounding of the rain drowned out all other sounds. Though perhaps if she had been paying better attention she might’ve heard the staccato sharpness of gunfire, might’ve noticed that those black helicopters had been unmarked, not police or news. But of course she didn’t notice, too preoccupied with impatience, wondering when Grandfather would return. 

And return he did, nearly crashing onto the roof with the frantic speed of his approach. Gosalyn ran to him, saw the dark rivulets of blood trailing down his arm and chest, mixing with rain as they fell. He gripped her arms, the pressure near bruising, and he pushed her back. 

“You must hide yourself, Grandchild,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper. “I am being hunted and if we do not hurry they find you as well.”

He guided her to the old shed, ripping the padlock off the door. 

“Grandfather,” Gosalyn said, grasping at his arms, though her grip was nowhere near as strong. “What’s happening?”

He pushed her inside. “Listen to me, Gosalyn,” he said, crouching to be at her eye level. This close, she could see that one of his wings had a bloody tear in it. “You must not leave this place. I believe the humans who hunt me only know of my existence, and we must keep it that way. I will lead them away from you.” 

“Wait,” Gosalyn cried, far more frantic now. “You can’t leave.”

Grandfather smiled. He cradled her cheek in one hand and leaned forward to briefly press their foreheads together. 

“If I don’t come back you must promise me that you will be careful,” he said. “Remember, curiosity and caution.”

“You have to come back! I can’t cross the bay on my own,” she pleaded. 

Grandfather opened his mouth to answer but he stiffened, jerking his head over his shoulder. Now that Gosalyn was listening, she heard it too. The thrum of helicopter blades. 

He pushed her further into the shed, until she was nearly pressed against the far wall. 

“When the clan sees we have not arrived, they will search for you,” he said in a rush. “But you must stay hidden. You must stay safe until then.”

“Grandfather,” Gosalyn whispered. 

He left without a backward glance, closing the door to the shed behind him. 

She didn’t hear his takeoff but she certainly heard the helicopters as they passed overhead. There was no way for them to see her but still she hunkered down, stuffing her body between old wooden crates and cracked flower pots. Hours passed that way and still Grandfather did not return, though she continued to hear helicopters. She counted down the hours, minutes, seconds left to sunrise, curled up with her arms wrapped around her knees like she hadn’t done since she was a hatchling. 

As a rule, gargoyles didn’t dream. Gosalyn was no exception. The state of terror she awoke in the following night was the same she'd fallen asleep to. But instead of rushing out as she might’ve once done, she resolved to wait a little longer. After all, if Grandfather found somewhere safe to roost he’d need time to get back to her. 

In the hour she counted on her watch she didn’t hear any helicopters passing overhead. She also didn’t hear any rain. The sounds of the city had returned in full force, surrounding her on all sides. In spite of them, she knew that she would recognize the flap of gargoyle wings. 

But after an hour had gone by with only the oppressive silence on the other side of the door as her companion, Gosalyn burst out of the shed and took to the skies to begin her feverish search. She scoured the desolate parts of St. Canard where they most often roosted, old hideouts and familiar landmarks. She glided past the Audubon Bay Bridge and the Natural History Museum that Grandfather had been too tired to visit, the downtown library and the bodega that made their favorite pretzels. 

She searched until night began to dwindle, and sunrise was less than an hour away. So exhausted she could barely keep herself in the air, Gosalyn made her shambling way back to the rooftop shed. It was the last place she and Grandfather had known, and perhaps he was simply waiting for her there while she ran herself ragged. It seemed like the sort of lesson he would choose to impart. 

But the roof, when she landed clumsily upon it, was empty. 

There was a shard of ice embedded in Gosalyn’s heart, burying itself deeper and spreading the cold further. As the sun rose it chilled, and a chasm of grief opened itself at her feet. 

Gosalyn hid herself in the shed again, for the first time in her life truly wary of the open air. She vowed to search even harder the next night, to stick to the most decrepit, most abandoned parts of the city where her Grandfather might find shelter away from the humans who hunted him. She vowed to never stop searching until she found him. 

And then, five weeks later, she found Darkwing. 

  
  
  


Gosalyn makes it a week before she seeks out Darkwing again. 

She doesn’t realize the significance of his presence in her life until it’s gone, leaving an empty, hollow space inside her that isn’t completely unlike the gaping, bloody chunk that Grandfather’s disappearance had torn out of her. She knows him, cares for him, and even if he barely knew her in return he seemed to care about her too. The most paranoid human she has ever seen, and he put down his weapons for her. He called after her in desperation, in fear. He’s not like the humans who took Grandfather and she has to believe that or she may never give the species another chance. 

Gargoyles are solitary creatures. She could live out the rest of her life as she’s always done; hiding in the shadows, fending for herself, and not bothering with humanity. She could, but she doesn’t want to. 

She doesn’t want to be alone anymore. 

The Natural History Museum is almost laughably easy to break into. There’s a single, circular window about twenty feet off the ground that may be hard to reach for a human, but is devastatingly simple for someone who can scale walls. There are no alarms when she forces the window open, presumably because no human should be able to reach it, much less fit through the small opening. 

She drops down to a linoleum floor surrounded by exhibits of early man. The frozen wax figures max her giggle as she hurries down the hall, careful not to touch anything. Her claws click against the floor as she explores, marveling at the gleaming gold sarcophagus of the ancient Egypt exhibit and the simple ingenuity of humankind’s early planes and flying machines. She enjoys all that Grandfather never got the chance to.

But most importantly, she finds the museum’s lone security guard and moves to the exhibit farthest away from him. 

Gosalyn finds herself in a room full of Greek artwork and vases, and decides that it’ll work as well as any other. She knows from the weeks she spent shadowing Darkwing that he responds to break-ins faster than the police do. She doesn’t see a reason for that to change tonight. 

Darkwing arrives ten minutes after she trips the alarm. 

She’s sitting on the floor in front of an empty podium, tipping an ancient Greek vase back and forth when he walks up to her. Only once he stops, a handful of steps away, does she look up. 

The exhibit is dark save for sparse moonlight coming through the windows, and his hat throws his features into shadow. But she’s learned to read his body language and she knows that he’s surprised by the hitch in his breath. He stows his gas gun on his belt. 

“Grandfather always wanted to come here,” she says quietly, holding the vase in place. 

There's a crescendo of sirens outside and blue and red lights flood the room through the windows, overpowering the moonlight. 

“How about we continue this conversation somewhere less likely to get the both of us arrested?” Darkwing says. 

Gosalyn is already on her feet, putting the vase back on its display. 

“They’re getting better,” Darkwing says idly as he watches the police swarm the museum grounds below them. “I mean, they’re not _good,_ it’ll probably take them half an hour to realize nothing was stolen, but they’re definitely getting better.”

Gosalyn sits at the base of the museum’s pitched roof, a few feet away from the edge where Darkwing stands. Her arms are wrapped around her knees and her wings are wrapped her shoulders, so only her head is visible. She resists the urge to tug her hood up too, because she promised herself she would stop hiding. 

Darkwing turns his back on the police officers to approach her. They lock eyes, Darkwing shadowed and looming, Gosalyn hunched over and small. But then he kneels down in front of her, and that is both familiar and not. He takes his hat off and the warmth and relief in his expression is new, as is her lack of fear, for once only a distant, niggling thing. She wants to trust. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

“Of course I’m okay,” Gosalyn sniffs, only a little bit offended. 

Darkwing’s mouth curls in the barest smirk. Mostly, he just looks grave. “I looked for you,” he says, surprising her. “All week. I was worried something had...well. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Why?” Gosalyn asks, but there’s no bite. Just curiosity and caution. 

“You’re a-a gargoyle in a human’s world, kid,” Darkwing says, only a touch exasperated. “I’m not asking for your life story, but I can only imagine it’s hard getting around like you do. Night helps, but I hope you’re being careful during the day, too.”

“I’m good at hiding,” Gosalyn retorts. _“You_ didn’t notice me for weeks.”

Darkwing chuckles. “You got me there.”

Gosalyn gnaws on her lower lip, her fangs biting into the skin but not breaking it. “Have you really never seen another gargoyle?” Her last hope hinges on his answer, her voice so quiet it’s almost impossible to hear over the chatter of police officers below. 

“I think I’d remember seeing something like you before,” Darkwing says, smile wry but an apology in his voice. While it’s the answer she expects, she's still crestfallen. “Are you,” he starts to say, “are you completely on your own then? Does anyone else know about you?”

“You’re the first human I’ve met,” Gosalyn admits. “But… the ones who took Grandfather. They know about us.”

“Your grandfather was taken?” Darkwing demands. He looks almost horrified, but mostly he seems _angry_. Angry in a way she’s only seen when he’s unaware of her presence, in the moment before he appears in a cloud of smoke and lilting words, descending on his opponent with enough bravado to match an actor in a playhouse. It’s the simmering rage beneath the mask, and this time it’s all for her. 

Gosalyn nods but it’s a jerky barely-there thing. In that moment, the stress of half-a-year’s traveling, her last two months of tireless search, and the mingled joy and terror of finding and meeting Darkwing, crashes down on her like the bay’s black waves. 

“It...it’s my fault,” she stutters, her breath coming out a short gasp as tears pool in her eyes and trail hot down her cheeks. “It’s my fault they found us. I wasn’t careful enough and I let the humans see me and they hunted him down and they took him and...what if they killed him? What if I killed Grandfather?”

Through the haze of her tears she sees Darkwing reach out, hesitate, and reach out again. His hand curls around her shoulder and the wing covering it and though it’s smaller and softer, it’s not so different from Grandfather’s. 

“It’s not your fault,” he says, like it’s a fact. He ducks his head so to better meet her gaze. “Hey. It’s not your fault, Gosalyn. You can’t control the actions of others, and besides, it’s not like you were asking to be attacked just by existing. It doesn’t work like that, kiddo. They’re the ones in the wrong, not you.”

Though Gosalyn hears him and takes his words to heart, she’s sobbing too heavily to give any sort of response. The walls she carefully constructed have eroded paper thin and the emotions they were damming have burst free without restraint. 

“Hey,” Darkwing says again, softer now. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He wraps his arms around her hesitantly, almost awkwardly, like he’s never hugged anybody before. She’s not even completely sure what he’s doing until his hands touch her back and her cheek brushes a button on his suit. Once she does realize, she flings her arms and her wings around his waist, pulling a little “Oof!” from him at the sudden pressure. 

But he cups the back of her head, mindful of her horns, and lets her cry out all her grief into his suit for a few minutes more. 

  
  


Darkwing is investigating Grandfather’s disappearance. 

Darkwing also doesn’t want her following him around anymore. 

“It’s too dangerous,” he says, crossing his arms and fixing her with a hard stare. “I know how important this is to you, but I can’t have you getting in the way.” 

It’s been two nights since the museum and Gosalyn thinks he’s still a little sore about her running off without a word when she noticed the approaching dawn. While she trusts him, some instinctual part of her has her holding her tongue when it comes to telling him about stone sleep. It’s vulnerability in its finest form, and the gargoyle in her demands she protect herself by keeping her secrets close. 

Still, she feels guilt, low and tight in her gut, at keeping this from him when he’s going out of his way to help her find Grandfather. 

“It’ll take time. Maybe lots of time,” Darkwing had said, grave and apologetic. “And the answers we get may not be the ones you want. But I _will_ find out who did this to you. In the meantime, do you have somewhere to stay? Somewhere safe?” 

Dawn had saved her from answering, but not for long. 

Since the museum, she’s followed him on his patrols all night, trying her best to banish the specter of fear his warning had brought out in her by avoiding his questions of where she goes during the day and slipping away before the first rays of dawn the moment his back is turned. They start the whole thing over again the very next night. 

Tonight his glare is in fine form but the effect is rather ruined by the handstand Gosalyn is doing on the low wall in front of him. She laughs, removing a hand so she’s supporting herself with just the one, which trembles only faintly before stabilizing. 

“I thought ‘getting dangerous’ was your thing?” she retorts. “I've heard you say it to yourself enough times.”

“Yes, it’s _my_ thing,” he says sternly, splaying a hand on his chest, “Me, the superhero with a job to do. And I can’t do my job and worry about you at the same time.”

Gosalyn shrugs, an interesting action while upside down. “I never got in your way before.”

Darkwing pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know you were _there_ before.”

“Exactly! Now you know I’m here, _and_ you know that I’m good at hiding. Besides,” she wheedles innocently, flipping out of her handstand and landing in a crouch,“do you really want me out there in the big city, all on my own? Where you aren’t there to keep an eye on me?”

Gosalyn bats her eyes at Darkwing and he groans. 

“Just...stay in the shadows, okay?” he grits out. 

She salutes him, like she’s seen done in the movies. “Aye aye, captain!”

Though she delivers her promise flippantly, a gargoyle’s word is their bond; or so Grandfather used to say. So she keeps out of sight, only coming out of hiding when the bad guys have been taken away and Darkwing is the only human around, ready with jokes and critiques on his fighting and requests that he stop at the taco place on 49th because she feels guilty for having stolen all her meals from them. 

He doesn’t stop asking where she goes during the day. She’s learned to tell his angry frown apart from his worried frown and it’s the latter she sees most often, especially when she continues to avoid his questions. 

“I sleep during the day,” she says and no more, and he’s frustrated by this non-answer more and more each night. 

“Kid,” he tells her haltingly, nearly a month after the museum, “look, if you need somewhere to stay you can just say so. You’re alone, and it sounds like you’re always moving around and that’s no kind of life for a kid. If you want...if you want, you can stay with me. You’d be safe. And-and I sleep during the day too, so you wouldn’t even be alone there.”

Gosalyn wants to accept. No matter how well hidden she is, she succumbs to stone sleep every dawn with the fear that she’ll be discovered, that she might never wake again, or even worse, upon waking she’ll find herself in whatever lab or prison Grandfather was taken to.

Still, something holds her back, something she can’t even put words to. While she trusts Darkwing, she holds back from letting him into her life completely and breaking that final barrier between them. If she accepts, if she moves in with him in the tower, what's to keep him from getting sick of her? She tired Grandfather with her antics, and he was _clan_. A human who owes her nothing could only stand her for so long. 

So she avoids the question, changes the subject, or just runs off into the night and avoids _him_ for a few days. Until after countless evasions, Darkwing stops asking, perhaps out of fear that she’ll stay away for good. And that’s almost worse. 

Gosalyn is unfamiliar with violence. She knows it in concept, from books and films and the stories recounted to her by Grandfather. They’d never stuck around human settlements long enough for her to witness the humans’ so-called brutality against one another, and Gosalyn would go on wondering, finding it impossible to believe that the beings who created the music she so loved, the science Grandfather always raved about, who she watched hug their children, could be capable of harming one another in the way she was warned about. 

Then Grandfather lands on their rooftop, bleeding, bruised, and hunted. She watches the foes Darkwing faces; they outnumber him and fight with weapons deadlier than his gas gun. Darkwing, who matches violence with violence, and fights for those who cannot. 

Fights for her and for Grandfather. 

There’s an artistry to Darkwing’s battles, even when he finds himself more bruised than his opponent in the end. He takes punches and delivers them twice as strong, ducks and weaves even when half conscious. 

But she also learns of the consequences of his violence. More than once, when the dust has settled Gosalyn will lead Darkwing back to the Ratcatcher and the first aid kit stowed within, retrieving ice packs and bandages for his head or the few times his uniform has been sliced through, cutting into the skin below. 

Thus far, the worst injury Darkwing has ever suffered is the one she never saw happen.

He kicks one of two thugs into the wall of the alley, and Gosalyn is too amused watching him trip backward into garbage to pay enough attention to the second human throwing himself at Darkwing. All of a sudden Darkwing’s grunting in pain and the second thug is falling to the ground unconscious. When Darkwing turns around he has a knife sticking out of his thigh and blood already blooming around the blade. 

She remembers, all at once, that humans don’t have stone sleep. For them, recovery is long and painful and damaging. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he assures her over her stuttered gasp as he limps back to the Ratcatcher. He’s pale and sweating a little under the hat and mask, fighting to keep his breathing measured. “Didn’t even get me that deep,” he says, fishing a roll of gauze out of his first aid kit and wrapping it tightly above and below the knife with hands that tremble. 

“A-are you gonna be okay?” she asks, dropping down from her perch on the fire escape to land on the front fender. She hasn’t seen so much blood since Grandfather, and the sight of it rapidly staining his bandages sends her stomach churning. 

“You bet,” Darkwing replies, heaving himself onto the seat of the Ratcatcher. “Might just need a couple stitches. I can’t take care of it here, though, I need to go back to my hideout for that.”

He doesn’t ask her to go with him, hasn’t for the last week, and her heart pangs heavily at the reminder. 

“You’ll have to find some other way to amuse yourself tonight,” he jokes, and jerks his chin in her direction. “You’ve still got the phone I gave you right? In case of emergency, you call me.”

Gosalyn laughs, the sound only a little strained as she hops to the ground. “Your leg’s the emergency! Go get it fixed!”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” he replies, but can’t hide his grimace as he starts the Ratcatcher’s engine and peels out of the alley. 

She finds him barely worse for wear the next night, a slight limp the only evidence of his injury, but the ordeal frightens Gosalyn more than she lets on. Guilt plagues her, and she wonders if she might’ve been able to warn him if she hadn’t let herself get distracted. It conjures memories of Grandfather, beaten and bloody and her helpless to do anything about it. She can’t lose Darkwing the same way. She _refuses_. 

So a handful of nights later, in another alley with another gang of thugs, when Gosalyn sees the silver flash of a blade she doesn’t hesitate. Darkwing has his back turned, delivering the final blow to a brutish blond human when she sweeps down from the fire escape with a feral roar, her eyes shining white in the darkness. 

Darkwing jerks his head at the sound but he isn’t fast enough, and Gosalyn tackles the human who was about to stab him in the back. The human screams in her face as she claws at his clothes, though she takes care to only tear fabric and not skin. She roars louder, spreading her wings wide behind her, exacerbating the man’s panic. 

He lashes out with a closed fist, and she realizes that he never dropped the knife when there’s a tearing, burning sensation in her left wing. 

It’s Gosalyn’s turn to cry out in pain.

“Get away from her!” Darkwing snarls, and the human is dragged out from under her. There’s the sound of blows landing and a weighty thud before Darkwing is crouching in front of her, his brown skin nearly white with terror. 

“Gos, you’re gonna okay, I promise. Can you hear me? Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

Her wing burns like someone’s lit it on fire, but her brain feels very fuzzy by contrast. Like that time she guzzled an entire bottle of wine before Grandfather caught her. 

When she turns her head she sees her left wing drooping beside her, the human’s knife lodged below the bloody tear he’d made the softer, leathery part of her wing. She finds it difficult to look away. 

Darkwing’s hands cup her cheeks, turning her to face him.

“Hey, look at me, okay?” he says, his smile shaky on his pale face. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

His arms come around her, gently lifting her but leaving her left wing to hang below her. She cries out as the movement jostles the knife and Darkwing's apology is a hushed murmur. He climbs onto the Ratcatcher, placing her in his lap. He pulls out rolls of bandages and gauze from the first aid kit.

“How are you doing, kiddo?” he asks as he carefully straightens her wing. 

She flinches against his chest, clutching at his sleeve without thinking. “Hurts,” she manages to whimper. 

“I know,” he murmurs, padding her wound with gauze, “I know, I’m sorry. But you just had to go and be a hero, huh? Steal my spotlight and everything.”

“I had to,” she sniffs stubbornly, despite how dizzy she feels. “He was gonna hurt you.”

“Yeah, but it’s my job to take risks,” he says as he bandages her wing. 

Gosalyn stiffens. “What’re you doing? You need to take the knife out.”

“What?” Darkwing startles. “No, kiddo, we’ve got to leave it in for now. It could do more damage on the way out than it did going in, and I’m not taking that chance.”

Anxiety joins the waves of pain and nausea Gosalyn is already experiencing. She glances down at her watch, a purple digital one Darkwing had bought for her to replace the one with a cracked face. It reads 4:45, which means she has about half an hour until sunrise. Stone sleep will heal her, but only if the blade is removed from her wing. 

“There’s a doctor I know, someone I trust,” Darkwing is saying, “she won’t tell anyone about you if I tell her not to. She can get to us fast. We just need to get somewhere safe.”

Gosalyn squirms in his grasp. “No, I need to sleep,” she protests, clawing ineffectually at his arm. 

“No, Gos, you can’t fall asleep right now,” Darkwing says, as something frantic enters his voice. “I’m going to call Dr. Bellum, you’ll be fine—”

Before Darkwing can stop her, she reaches over and yanks the knife out of her wing. For an instant the pain flares worse than ever before, and Gosalyn’s world temporarily whites out. When it abates, she resurfaces to Darkwing redoubling his attempt at bandaging her wing, nearly shouting at her with a voice that’s gone high in panic. 

“—were you _thinking_? What did I just tell you, Gosalyn? I know it hurts, but you need to listen to me this time. I’m on your side!”

“I need to sleep so it heals,” Gosalyn mutters, feeling lightheaded. 

Darkwing goes silent, though he doesn't stop bandaging her wing. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice brittle. 

“It’s a-a gargoyle thing,” Gosalyn says, turning to look at him as best she can. “I trust you. Now you need to trust me. I need somewhere safe to sleep. Your...your hideout. The tower.”

“How did you know about—” Darkwing says as he ties off the last length of bandage, only to cut himself off with an abashed smile. “Right. Following me for weeks without me noticing. But, kiddo, are you sure? The doctor—”

“I’m sure,” she replies, sagging in relief. A glance at her watch reveals that it’s now 5:05. “But, Darkwing, we have to hurry.”

Gosalyn wishes she could enjoy the ride up to the tower, but her mind has gone hazy with pain as shivers wrack her body. 

They’re on a secret platform within one of the towers of the Audubon Bay Bridge. It’s a blur of darkness and intermittent bursts of light, rising quickly. But not quick enough for Darkwing. He very nearly growls above her, pressing a warm hand against her clammy forehead. 

“You have a fever,” he mutters, “I shouldn’t have let you pull out the knife, kid.”

“Can’t heal my wing if there’s a knife sticking out of it,” Gosalyn mumbles, though she’s unsure how much of what she said is intelligible. 

The platform docks with a quiet hiss and Darkwing lifts her off the Ratcatcher. She catches brief glimpses of his hideout, a wide open, spartan place with dark stone walls and catwalks leading up to higher terraces. There are tall windows all around her, looking out onto the bay and the bridge below. Through them she sees the purple sky, gradually beginning to lighten. 

“Okay,” Darkwing says, his voice thin. “Now what, Gos?” 

She pats his arm tiredly. “You can just put me down. I’ll probably be too heavy.”

He does so, and she manages a breath of a laugh at the befuddled look on his face. Then she sees the front of his uniform, stained with her blood, and the smile drops from her face. 

“S-sorry, Darkwing,” she says, reaching for his coat as if to scrub the stain away. She'd wanted to help him, but all she's done is become a burden.

“What?” His brow furrows in confusion. He glances down at the coat of his uniform that she’s gripping, and his face breaks into a shaky smile. “Oh no, it’s fine, Gos. I’ve got like twenty more of these babies upstairs.”

“What’d you call me?” she asks curiously. Sunrise is mere moments away and it’s becoming difficult to hold onto her panic with the weight of her exhaustion keeping it at bay. 

Darkwing blinks. “Uh...Gos? It’s-it’s a nickname. Short for Gosalyn? If-if you don’t like it I won’t use it.”

“No, I like it,” she replies, and she does, along with every other name he’s used for her. It kindles something warm inside her, something she thought extinguished with Grandfather’s vanishing. 

Her watch beeps with the onset of sunrise. Darkwing looks at it apprehensively. 

“What does that mean?”

Gosalyn turns her face toward the rising sun, grateful that Darkwing brought her near one of the tall windows. “Now I go to sleep. You don’t have to stay, Darkwing.”

“What do you mean I don’t have to—” 

With a breath, stone sleep claims her and she surrenders to peaceful oblivion. With her last thought, she hopes that her trust in Darkwing was well placed. 

The stone around Gosalyn shatters as she gives a yawn and tremendous stretch, extending her wings as far as they’ll go. She’s gratified when her left wing hardly produces more than a twinge, having healed in the night. 

There’s a surprised burst of sound across from her, and only then does she take stock of her surroundings. 

The tower is more brightly lit than when she first entered, the raised platforms and catwalks above her illuminated. Slumped over in an armchair that certainly wasn’t there when she fell asleep is Darkwing, startling wake with a snort. 

He just stares at her for a long moment. Gosalyn doesn’t think he blinks or breathes. 

“You’re back,” he murmurs at last, heaving a sigh that leaves him nearly boneless in the chair. 

Gosalyn giggles. “Of course I’m back. I was sleeping.”

“Right.” Darkwing hunches over with a hoarse laugh, rubbing his eyes. “Sleeping.”

She pauses a moment to take stock of Darkwing. He’s still in his uniform from the night before, bloodstained coat and all, but he’s removed his mask and hat, the former of which she’s never seen him without. There are shadows under his eyes and tension in the line of his shoulders, and his cheekbone is swollen with bruising, perhaps due to a lucky blow from last night’s thugs. His hair is in disarray, as though he’s been running his hands through it.

“Did you,” Gosalyn says, hesitant as she rises to her feet, “did you wait for me?”

Darkwing offers her a tired smile. “Course I waited, kiddo. You turned to stone right in front of my eyes without any warning—thanks for that by the way—no way was I going anywhere.”

Gosalyn approaches him quietly, gnawing on her lower lip. “Sorry for not telling you sooner,” she mumbles as she reaches the chair's armrest, clutching at the worn fabric. “I do trust you, but...since Grandfather, I’ve been so scared to go to sleep and I didn’t want you to think I _didn’t_ trust you—”

“Hey,” Darkwing says, chuckling as he lays a gentle hand on her head. “It’s okay, Gosalyn. I get why you didn’t tell me. But what’s not okay is you getting hurt in the first place.” His expression hardens, brows drawing low, and Gosalyn feels wrongfooted for a moment. 

“Why?” she asks. “I wanted to protect you.”

Darkwing scoots over and ushers her to join him. She eagerly scales the armchair, perching beside him. He lays a hand on her shoulder. 

“I get that you wanted to protect me,” Darkwing says, “And I appreciate that. But you’re a kid, Gosalyn. It’s my job to protect _you_.”

“But you would’ve gotten hurt!” Gosalyn immediately protests, “you’ve _already_ gotten hurt!” Her voice falters, and her next words come out weakened, “I don’t want to lose you, too. You’re all I have left.” 

“I can’t promise that I won’t get hurt again,” Darkwing says, gathering her close, “but I promise to be more careful. You’re all I have too, y’know.”

Gosalyn blinks up at him. “Really?” 

Darkwing’s smile is chagrined. “I’m not exactly the most popular guy. I’m not...good with people.”

“I know,” she giggles. "You really don’t like Gizmoduck, do you?”

Darkwing rolls his eyes. “Of course you saw that. Well, there you have it then. I’m bad at letting people into my life. I’m pretty awful at it, actually. But you...you’re something else, kiddo.” 

“I _am_ a gargoyle,” Gosalyn points out, and fails to hide a sharp-toothed smile when Darkwing fixes her with an unamused look. 

“What I’m trying to say,” Darkwing says, letting his smile slip through, “is that you seem to be the exception, Gos. So no matter what, you’re safe with me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“And...and Grandfather?” Gosalyn stutters, already overwhelmed with the weight of Darkwing’s promise. 

He smiles, and it transforms his face. The lines and shadows of exhaustion lighten and even the bruise on his cheekbone is a little less angry. 

“I’m not going to stop investigating what happened him,” he says, squeezing her shoulder with a decisive nod. “You deserve to know what happened, and the people responsible need to be brought to justice. So if there’s any other secret gargoyle stuff you haven’t told me yet, like-like breathing fire, now’s the time to tell me. So I know how to help you in the future.”

She’s been alone for so long she hadn’t thought to hope. Instead she fretted and feared and ran away before Darkwing could tire of her, before she became a burden he’d come to resent. But he’s been inviting her into his life this whole time hasn’t he, waiting for her with an outstretched hand? 

Gosalyn huddles close, tucking her horns under his chin. Darkwing moves to accommodate her without complaint, and when his arms settle around her shoulders and wings, she feels safe for the first time since Grandfather left her in that shed. 

“Well,” she says, making a show of thinking hard, “Because Gargoyles turn into stone by day, they need someplace safe to sleep. Do you know any creepy superhero lairs that would work?”

“I think I know just the place,” he says after a moment, and without looking up she can hear the smile in his voice. “Wait— _creepy?”_

Gosalyn laughs, and she feels so light she briefly forgets about her grief over Grandfather and the clan that never came for her. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darkwing Duck cameos galore
> 
> Now with awesome [fanart](https://based-ducks.tumblr.com/post/189460323742/yall-please-read-mighty-ants-fic-its-so-good)  
> 

Someone has been following him for the past week. They’re good, whoever they are, he’ll give them that. Too subtle to be his merry band of supervillains, gangsters, and spies, and not subtle enough to be police. They’re an unknown, which in his line of work makes them dangerous. 

Whoever they are, they seem to prefer rooftops which is ideal for an ambush. So he lets them follow him to the abandoned Cavanaugh Orphanage in Old St. Canard. The building has stood empty for close to fifty years, and age has not been kind to it. The sign above the doorway is missing nearly all of its letters and the red brick is covered in layers of graffiti. What few windows aren’t broken are so dirty they’re impossible to see out of it. 

Drake stalks through the halls up to the roof, the only mark of his passage the decades of dust his fluttering cape stirs up. He passes rooms that still have children’s beds lining the walls, decrepit with age, and books and toys litter the ground among the empty bottles, crumpled beer cans and cigarette butts left by squatters. He slows his pace as he reaches the steps that =lead him to the roof. His steps don’t make a sound against the aging wood, and he finds the door at the top of the stairs already hanging partially open. 

He slowly pushes the door wider, mindful of squealing hinges. The roof is almost utterly dark, the only suggestion of light provided by the few streetlamps below. Drake creeps through the doorway, scanning his surroundings, and he spots a slight figure on the far right side of the roof. They’re staring down into the alley where he left the Ratcatcher, waiting for him to leave the building. 

Crossing the rooftop is a matter of seconds. He can make out the folded wings of whatever glide suit they’ve been wearing to follow him so silently, but ignores it in favor of grabbing their arm resting on the low wall and twisting it behind their back with brutal efficiency. With their arm gripped tight, he slams them against the wall. 

“Who are you?” he barks, “who are you and why have you been following me?”

Drake’s grown accustomed to plees, bargaining and frantic excuses when he apprehends his target. If they’re especially skilled, he gets silence. He expects fear, he expects struggling; he just doesn’t expect a _child_. 

“Let me go!” they shriek, the shrill terror in their voice making his blood run cold. Horror makes his mind go blank, his limbs freeze. Only something _bursting_ off of them startles him into releasing them, shoving him back with such force that he almost falls onto his backside. 

The kid wastes no time in darting away with startling agility, nearly disappearing in the darkness. 

“Wait!” he blurts, guilt and fear over having injured a child choking him like a garrote. “Wait, please.” If they’ve gone to the effort of following him maybe they need help, maybe they’re even living on the street. St. Canard isn’t kind to its citizens, much less its most vulnerable, and nearly a decade ago he’d made a vow to ensure their protection in the face of institutions that would profit off their suffering. Yet he didn’t even hesitate before attacking one of them. 

By some miracle, they stop in front of the wall on the opposite side of the roof. He can make out their silhouette in the darkness, crouched on the ground like an animal, their bared teeth shining silver in the moonlight. Something massive curves in the air above them, the wings of the glide suit perhaps, but why would a child have that in the first place? 

Drake fumbles for the flashlight on his belt, clicking it on as he takes slow careful steps forward. 

At first, he doesn’t comprehend what he’s seeing. 

Claws. Talons, really, three on each foot, leading up to knees with curving spurs. Skin that’s red as clay and long tangled hair that’s even redder, where two blunt horns poke through. A dingy green hoodie. And jutting from their back and spread wide behind them: a massive pair of batlike wings. 

In theory, a creature of nightmares. 

Their face is pulled back in a furious scowl, revealing pointed teeth. But all Drake sees is the way they cradle the arm he so brutally twisted and the tears in their eyes, shining in the harsh brightness of his flashlight. 

“You hurt me!” the child snaps, voice breaking, and he knows that he’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to them. 

  
  
  
  
  


Drake doesn’t really sleep. 

Insomnia’s an old friend and nightmares tend to play on loop behind his closed eyelids. St. Canard puts on a shining face, but her streets are rank with crime and corruption and his old cases tend to come back to haunt him even during the waking hours. 

The Moliarity tunneling fiasco that caved in an entire subway station. Twenty-five people dead of poisoning when Flood tampered with his competitors’ bottled water. The former deputy police commissioner who murdered his mistress in cold blood (Drake pounded his face into hamburger meat before dropping him off outside Duckburg’s 87th precinct, and his knuckles still ache sometimes at the memory).

Over the last six years, Drake has fallen into a cycle of coffee, crime fighting, staying awake for seventy-two hours and crashing for eighteen before doing the whole thing all over again. He’s not so deluded that he doesn’t know his routine is nowhere near healthy. But even working with S.H.U.S.H. he still works alone, and the only person he’s has to worry about is himself. 

At least that was the case until about two weeks ago, when he just happened to take in a child that wasn't human. 

He’s just returned from a relatively quiet evening of patrol (five muggings, one weapons deal, and two foiled attempts at armed robbery) when said child pokes her head around the wall separating their rooms.

His hidden vigilante lair wasn’t designed with children in mind, or any company that wasn't his for that matter. It has something of an open floor plan, with high ceilings, varying platforms, and limited light sources for added air of mystery. The point being, there weren’t exactly an appropriate sleeping arrangements for a little girl, gargoyle or not, so he set up a series of walls to give the illusion of rooms and the privacy offered therein. 

“Darkwing?” Gosalyn says quietly. Her eyes glow like a cat’s in the half shadow and her bright red hair curls wild around her head.

Drake pauses in the process of unhooking his cape to mute the news playing on the television mounted on his wall. 

_“—latest of Bulba’s charitable donations will be put toward building community centers in low-income—”_

“Come on in, Gos,” he replies. 

“Are you busy?” she asks, fiddling with something behind her back. 

Drake removes his cape, placing it on the stand where his current, undamaged uniform of the week will rest. “Never too busy for you, kid. What’s up?”

She pulls her hairbrush out from behind her back. “Can you, um...brush my hair before I go to sleep?” 

Warmth kicks him in the chest like a perp with a steel toe boot and he smiles with what is becoming increasing ease. “Sure thing,” he says. “Just give me a sec to change into something that isn’t Kevlar.” 

“Okay but hurry up,” Gosalyn replies warningly, tapping the watch he bought her to replace the old one with a cracked face. “Sunrise is in sixteen minutes.”

“I know,” he says, chuckling as he taps his own watch, set to match hers as a precautionary measure. _He’d_ sooner turn to stone than let Gosalyn be caught outside and unprotected at sunrise. 

Once she’s gone, he maneuvers out of his suit and into a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. He inspects his uniform for any tears he might’ve missed before hanging it on the stand alongside his cape. As he crosses the short distance to Gosalyn’s room, he scrubs a hand through his hair where his hat had flattened it. 

He finds her sitting up in bed, carefully organizing the trinkets on her nightstand. Among her old watch and one of his torn masks (that he thought he’d tossed in the incinerator) is a small, ratty plush crocodile (or maybe an alligator), a Gizmoduck action figure missing its wheel (which he’d very maturely chosen not to be offended by) and a carefully curated collection of bottle caps. 

Drake has tried to curb Gosalyn’s hoarding tendencies, but he knows better than to push too hard. She’s spent who knows how long stealing and scavenging to survive, even before her grandfather was kidnapped, to the point where she still looks at his fully-stocked refrigerator with awe every evening come breakfast. He only puts his foot down when she steals food, or worse, digs it out of the trash on the rare occasions he allows her to join him on patrol. 

Instead of wasting time on repeated explanations or lectures, he tries to show Gosalyn that she’s safe and provided for. It’s important she knows that as a child it’s not her responsibility to provide for herself; that as the adult, it's his job. It’s something he wishes anyone had bothered explaining to him when he was her age.

Beside the bed and nightstand, Gosalyn’s room has a desk and a chest of drawers, the former already littered with notepads and books and the latter filled with half of a nearby Macy’s children’s clothing department. With Gosalyn’s help, he cut everything to accommodate her wings, tail, and the curving spurs extending from her knees. 

By comparison, his room seems even more spartan and utilitarian than usual. 

Gosalyn looks up as he enters. “We only have twelve minutes!” she exclaims, brandishing her hairbrush. 

“Relax, kiddo, the cavalry’s arrived,” Drake responds, taking a seat beside her. Gosalyn’s still holding the brush so he combs his fingers through her hair in the meantime, bringing some order to the red cloud. It curls just above her jaw, and her short horns and pointed ears are almost lost among the waves. 

“You don’t have to cut more, do you?” she asks quietly. 

“No,” Drake says at once. He grips Gosalyn gently by the shoulders so she turns to face him. “I promise, no one’s cutting your hair again unless it's life and death.”

She sniffs, but he’s relieved to see that there isn’t any sign of tears in her eyes. “Like if someone spills a flesh eating virus on it?” 

“I was gonna say if the wind blows it in your face too often, but that too,” he jokes, and Gosalyn sticks her tongue out at him—a habit she’s unfortunately picked up from him letting her watch too much television. 

Hair has a cultural significance for gargoyles, as he learned a few days into Gosalyn agreeing to move into the Tower. Young gargoyles trust their clan members with its upkeep, to brush it for them and cut it if need be. This means that by the time they met, Gosalyn’s grandfather hadn’t been around to brush her hair for eight weeks. It hung long and matted halfway down to her waist, nearly impossible to wash and impossible to brush. Convincing Gosalyn that cutting it was their only option took several nights of patience, many of them spent with her hiding on the catwalks winding up to the Tower’s ceiling.

When Gosalyn hands him the hairbrush, Drake understands the depth of trust implicit in the action and even now it nearly overwhelms him. How Gosalyn could trust anyone much less _him_ , strange and solitary and dangerous, is a mystery he falls asleep nearly every morning pondering. 

He hums under his breath as he begins to brush her hair, nonsense sounds and the scales he practiced as a kid in choir practice. 

“Darkwing?” Gosalyn says after a moment, as she begins to slump sleepily against his knees. 

“Yeah, kiddo?” he replies, carefully maneuvering the brush around her horns. 

“Have you found anything about the people who took Grandfather?” she asks quietly. 

Drake shakes his head, grimacing. 

“I’m sorry, Gos. Nothing concrete yet. I know that the helicopters that were after him weren’t police; I monitor all of their frequencies, and I can guarantee there’s no way they could’ve kept something like this quiet. Now I just need to rule out whether there was government involvement or if this was a private job.” 

She looks back at him over her shoulder. “Can I come with you on patrol next time? Help you shake down suspects?”

That startles a laugh out of Drake. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I don’t think so. Until we know who’s behind your grandad’s kidnapping, it’s best you stay here where it’s safe.” 

Gosalyn turns back around with a huff and Drake makes little effort to hide his smile. However, a thought comes to him that quickly causes him to sober and he puts down the brush for a moment. “You said before that you and your grandfather were on your way to meet another gargoyle...clan in Duckburg,” he says. “Are you sure there’s no way to contact them?”

“Grandfather wrote them a letter when we first decided to move to Duckburg, but I don't know the, the address he used or anything.” Gosalyn's eyes are on her lap where she fiddles with her claws. “He told me that a long time ago a human climbed the mountain trying to find us. The human was old and rich and said that he’d heard rumors about us.”

Drake frowns. “What did he want?”

“Nothing, really.” Gosalyn shrugs. “According to Grandfather, the human said he was protecting a gargoyle clan in Duckburg, Calisota, and that anyone who wanted to could join them. He said that humans wouldn’t stop expanding, and that we wouldn’t be able to hide in the mountains forever.” She picks at a loose thread on the at the star patterned comforter she’d chosen, mindful of her claws. “No one went with him.”

“Was he right?” Drake asks hesitantly. “About humans finding you? Is that why you and your grandfather left?” 

Gosalyn shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he would’ve been. But one morning, almost a year after I hatched, an earthquake tore the mountain apart. Grandfather and I were the only ones left.”

Horror washes slowly over Drake, an ice cube in his gut that melts and spreads through his veins with chilling force. He reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. “Kid,” he says, “Gosalyn. I’m sorry.” She turns and buries her face in his chest. Drake tries not to startle too much at the foreign feeling of being embraced and lifts his arms to hesitantly rub her back under her wings. 

“The old guy,” he says, after his watch has helpfully beeped to remind him that they have five minutes until sunrise. “Do you know his name? What he looks like?” ‘Rich old man from Duckburg’ didn’t exactly narrow things down. If he was even telling the truth, it could’ve been McDuff, Glomgold, Rockerfell, or countless others. The guy might not even be alive at this point. 

“Grandfather never told me who he was,” she replies, leaning back to sleepily rub her eyes. “And no offense, but humans all look the same to us.”

Drake chuckles. “Fair.” 

Gosalyn yawns, revealing two rows of pointed teeth. “I would recognize you though,” she says as she begins to droop sleepily once more. 

“I appreciate that,” he replies, going for sarcastic but finding it comes out far more sincere than he intended. “But right now I think it’s bedtime for a certain gargoyle.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles, turning around to clamber to the other end of the bed. 

Drake rises to help her pull back the blankets. She’d originally been wary of sleeping in a bed, and tried to convince him to let her roost outside on the Tower’s outdoor scaffolding, nevermind the several hundred foot plummet to the water or pavement below. “A real gargoyle protects their home,” she insisted. Needless to say, he’d put a stop to that line of thinking by reminding her that she was still a child, gargoyle or no, so it was _his_ job to protect _her_ , which he couldn’t do if a gentle breeze was liable to knock her off the side of the Tower at any given moment. 

Watching her wriggle under the blankets with a contented sigh, Drake knows he made the right call. 

“Alright, kiddo, get a good day’s sleep, okay?” he says, fussing unnecessarily with her comforter. 

“Hm,” Gosalyn replies, her eyes already closed. “Can you sing me a lullaby?”

Drake sputters. “A—what? Why?” 

She shrugs, still not opening her eyes. To avoid his gaze, Drake suspects. “I dunno,” she says. “People do it in the movies when kids can’t fall asleep.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed. “But you don’t need help falling asleep. It just happens, right?”

“Well...yeah,” Gosalyn mumbles, drawing the comforter up to hide her face. 

A quick glance at his watch tells Drake he has two minutes until sunrise. He groans. “Kid, I can’t even sing.”

“Yeah you can,” she says immediately, lowering the comforter with an eager smile. “I hear you sing all the time.”

“You hear me _humming_ ,” he retorts, “there’s a difference.”

Gosalyn shakes her head. “No, before you knew I was following you around. You’d always sing when you were on stakeouts. What’s a ‘mama mia’ anyway?” 

Heat floods his cheeks. “Fine, fine! But I don’t know any lullabies.”

“Make one up,” she replies. She closes her eyes once more, clearly confident in her victory. 

“Oh sure, let me just make one up,” he grumbles, scrubbing a hand through his hair, “because song-writing is obviously what I do in my spare time.”

“One minute till sunrise,” Gosalyn singsongs. 

“I know, don’t rush me,” Drake says, playfully nudging her. Scanning Gosalyn’s room for song material, his gaze lands on her blue, star-studded comforter. He clears his throat a few times, inexplicable nervousness making his voice waver. “Alright. Okay.” 

_Close your eyes, little girl blue,_

_Inside of you lies a rainbow._

_Yellow, blue, red blue,_

_purple too,_

_Blue, purple and green,_

_then the yellow._

Gosalyn opens one eye. “Could use a little work.” 

Drake laughs, tension bleeding out of him in a wave. “Next time will be better. I promise.” 

She closes her eyes with a smile, and the expression freezes on her face as stone sleep descends upon her. It’s still a little terrifying to behold as between one blink and the next the little flesh and blood gargoyle beside him turns to cold, unyielding stone. Part of him fears that one night she might never wake up again, like a curse out of some stupid fairytale. Though perhaps not so stupid anymore. 

He smooths down the blankets around her one more time, uncaring of the futility of such an action. Drake turns the lights off as he leaves, his jaw nearly cracking with a yawn as he returns to his room. It’s daylight now, which means he needs to get a few hours of sleep before his undercover mission.

After all, Darkwing doesn’t operate during the day. 

  
  
  


Tad’s Taphouse is known for its variety of pale ales, award-winning burgers, and being St. Canard’s premiere gathering place of lowlives and thugs. 

Drake’s been sitting at the bar for the better part of an hour, nursing a beer, and listening to the chatter of criminals he’s had arrested at least three times each. 

After six years off the grid, it’s hard to shake the paranoia of being surrounded by people when he isn’t wearing a mask, especially when those people are all dangerous criminals. But detectivework requires him to be undercover, so instead of his battlesuit he’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket, though he kept his heavy duty combat boots. 

To make his face less recognizable without wearing a hat, which would automatically make him suspicious, it’s key to give his enemies one significant, distracting detail to focus on. So he’s used costume makeup to give himself a long jagged scar that starts just below his right eye and ends at his jaw. 

In his ear he has auditory enhancers, allowing him to listen in on conversations on the other side of the taphouse. 

However, it seems as though all of his hard work has been for nothing. The most pertinent piece of information he’s uncovered is what time Tuskernini’s getting his weapons shipment delivered, and while he’s definitely going to follow up on that, it doesn’t help him find whoever kidnapped Gosalyn’s grandfather. 

In the end, his salvation comes in the form of Big Time Beagle’s big mouth. 

_“They were willing to offer you ten G’s? And you said_ no?”

 _“I’m tellin’ ya, it smelled fishy! What kind of whackadoo gives six Beagles ten grand each to bring down_ one _guy?”_

Drake’s auditory enhancers pick up Big Time pontificating in a corner booth, surrounded by thugs even more low level than him. For all that he ties a Beagle trio together and serves as de facto leader in Ma’s absence, he’s always been the weak link. And it’s strange to see him so far out of Duckburg.

_“They wouldn’t even tell me the mark’s name or nothin’!”_

_“Must’ve been one of those superpowered freaks, if they were willin’ to pay that much,”_ Thug Two says. 

_“Exactly!”_ Big Time exclaims. “ _For all I know it could’a been Gizmoduck or, god, that Hercules wacko! I said no thank you, I like my arms and legs where they’re at.”_

Though it’s not much to work with, it’s the biggest lead Drake’s had so far. 

It’s a simple matter of starting a bar fight to get Big Time alone. One beer upended in one lowlife’s face, one mug shattered over another lowlife’s head, and within seconds chairs are flying and the bartender is hiding behind the counter. 

Drake ducks beneath a table and watches Big Time as he’s abandoned in his corner booth. The man wavers, glancing between the brawl his new friends have joined and the back door. His cowardice wins out, and he dashes out the exit. 

Drake smiles and sticks out his leg to trip a thug running past him. It’s been too long since he interrogated someone. 

He follows after Big Time, abandoning the cacophony of the fight for the silence of a filthy alley. He finds the Beagle less than fifteen feet away, bemoaning the state of his shoes in the muck that sits in rancid heaps around them. 

“Hey!” Drake barks.

Big Time yelps and slips, falling on his backside in the muck. As he wails, Drake advances on him at a run.

Gripping Big Time by the front of his shirt, Drake hauls him up and slams him against the wall. 

“IfIstoleyourwalletthat’smybadmancan’twebecoolaboutthis,” he shrieks in a rush, and Drake has to resist rolling his eyes. 

“Shut up,” he says, leaning so close their noses nearly touch. “Tell me who was willing to pay you ten thousand dollars.”

Big Time blinks, his pale, sweaty face a picture of confusion. “W-what?” 

Drake slams him against the wall again. “The ‘wackadoo.’ He was willing to pay you ten large for some suicide mission. I need a _name_.”

“W-whoa, hey,” Big Time says, smiling shakily as he raises his hands. “Beagle’s don’t rat out their clients. W-we have a strict honor code y-y’see. I wasn’t even supposed to be in town, my Ma would kill me if she knew, but have ya had Tad’s burgers? The s-stuff of legend, man.”

Drake lowers Big Time, placing him back on his feet, only to grab his arm and twist it behind him, smashing his face against the grimy wall of the alley. 

“Tell me who tried to hire you, or I’ll tie you to the end of my bike and drag you back to the junkyard you call home. See what Ma has to say then.”

“Okay,” Big Time gasps, “okay, take it easy, man, I’ll tell you. You know I was just jokin’ about that honor code stuff!” 

Drake loosens his grip enough for Big Time to wiggle free and turn around. “You don’t mess around, do ya’?” he says, rubbing his wrist. “Y’know, if ya need the number for a good therapist—”

“The name,” Drake demands, looming over Big Time. 

“Right, right, the name!” he exclaims, grinning nervously. “It was Steer Images, man. Never heard of ‘em before, but they had the Benjamins. Boy did they ever.”

“Thanks,” Drake mutters, shoving Big Time so he slips into the alleyway muck. As the man complains loudly about the smell, Drake slips away to the next alley over where he stashed his civilian motorcycle. 

He dials 911 on a burner phone to leave a quick anonymous tip about a bar fight involving several persons of interest before cracking it in half and throwing it into the nearest dumpster. Slipping his helmet on, he kickstarts his motorcycle and peels out of the alley. 

This was his first real break in the case, but it’s best not to get ahead of himself. He’ll have to do more research on his end, maybe call in a favor or three with some S.H.U.S.H. analysts whose bachelor party tryst he promised to keep underwraps. Big Time’s confession isn’t trustworthy, nor might it even be pertinent. Hell, what’re the odds he refused to work for gargoyle kidnappers? 

But a bad feeling in the pit of Drake’s gut tells him he already knows the answer. Because he’s looked into Steer Images before, and all signs point to the fact that the company is a front for the criminal activities of billionaire philanthropist and tech mogul, Taras Bulba. 

  
  
  
  
  


That night finds Drake disassembling and cleaning his gas gun at the kitchen table as he mulls over the information he gathered from Big Time. Gosalyn is eating breakfast across from him, ignorant of his current dilemma. He’s unwilling to tell her what he’s found, more afraid of giving her false hope than anything else. It wouldn't feel right to tell her until he has a chance to follow up on his Steer Images lead. 

He glances up at her from his partially disassembled gas gun. She has a bowl of cereal at her elbow and an eighth grade level workbook open in front of her. 

Despite being the equivalent of nine years old and a gargoyle, she’s advanced in virtually every subject. She tore through the fifth and sixth grade workbooks he’d brought back to the Tower in a single night, prompting a speedy return to the nearest Walmart come daylight. Gosalyn’s grandfather obviously cared about her enough to cultivate her education in spite of the barriers that came with living in hiding, not to mention being a creature of fiction. If Drake were in need of even more incentive to locate the old gargoyles whereabouts, it would be one of many. 

“Why do you wear a mask?” she asks, apropos of nothing. 

“I wear a mask,” Drake replies slowly and dramatically, “because there is nothing so terrifying to the criminal element as the unknown.”

 _“Really?”_ Gosalyn asks, eyes wide. She misses her mouth with her next spoonful of cereal, spilling a few drops of milk on her cheek. 

“Really. Plus, it’s got all sorts of wiring that scrambles video surveillance and makes my face impossible to photograph.”

Gosalyn scoffs, taking a proper bite of her cereal. “That’s the real reason.”

“Nah,” Drake says as he resumes cleaning his gas gun. “The real reason is that it looks super cool.”

“Not that cool,” Gosalyn says airily. 

“It’s pretty cool,” he counters. 

She scrunches her face up at him and he scrunches his face back. 

“Whatever,” she says. She jots something down in her workbook, which he hopes isn’t covered in milk stains. “Why aren’t you wearing it now?”

Drake resists the urge to touch his face where the mask would normally cover. That would be a tell. Though he has been wondering if Gosalyn would notice. 

“I don’t need to,” he replies, staring down the barrel of his gas gun. “It’s just you and me up here. Not a single criminal in sight.”

Gosalyn taps her spoon against the inside of her cereal bowl, a tell of her own. He had to request she start using objects rather than her claws after she began leaving holes in his table, which was a pain to get into the Tower in the first place. The point is, Gosalyn has a question she’s nervous about asking. 

“You’re not like other humans,” she finally says. Drake can’t help but laugh. 

“That’s an understatement,” he says, piecing his gas gun back together. 

She shakes her head. “Not because you’re a superhero. I’d think you were weird if you were a...a boring thing. Like an actor. But Grandfather always told me that humans were social beings. And-and I’ll see them outside and on TV talking, calling other humans on the phone, seeking out each other’s company.” 

Drake can tell where this is going, and apprehension begins to trickle down his back like hot molasses. It makes him defensive, which he knows Gosalyn doesn’t deserve. “What’s the question?”

Gosalyn startles at the harshness in his voice. “Um....why-why are you different, Darkwing?” 

He scoffs, and starts rebuilding his gas gun with speed. “You mean why am I always alone?” 

It’s a fair question, especially if Gosalyn compares him to virtually any other person in St. Canard. From her standpoint, watching humans coexist in one seemingly constant, teeming mass, his solitary existence above the city must be strange. She’s hardly getting to meet new people living with him, people who wouldn’t fear her and whose first reactions wouldn’t be to flat out attack her. 

Drake knows that Gizmoduck and the rest of his ridiculous Justice Guild would accept her, after a fair bit of gawking and a solid hour of questions on the tin can’s part. It’s certainly what Gosalyn deserves; companionship, and not a life spent with no one else but him. 

“You’re not alone,” Gosalyn says fiercely, startling him out of his self-imposed pity spiral. “You have me.”

 _For now,_ a treacherous part of his mind hisses, because nothing good in his life has ever lasted for long. All the same, his ire cools, leaving behind shame that solidifies like a stone in his throat. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing thickly. “We have each other. You’re right, Gos, I’m sorry.” 

“Good,” she retorts, with a decisive, adultlike nod that brings a smile to his face, unbidden. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

He puts the gas gun down with a sigh and tries to come up with a convincing half-truth. “It’s a little complicated. The city needs me to be Darkwing 24/7, and if I had a normal life like the rest of them, I couldn’t do that. Does that make sense? I can’t exactly meet normal people when I’m Darkwing, and I’m Darkwing all the time.” 

“What about Gizmoduck and the rest of the Justice Guild?” she says.

Drake narrows his eyes. “What about them?”

Gosalyn shrugs, suddenly very interested in her soggy cereal. “They’ve been leaving you a lot of messages on the Big Computer I’m Not Allowed to Touch.”

“You haven’t touched it, have you?” 

_“No,”_ she replies, like he’s being the unreasonable one. “The screen’s always lighting up when you’re on patrol. I mean, they’re heroes too, right? You can be Darkwing around them.”

“They’re just trying to nag me to come to a meeting,” he says flippantly. “I only joined the Guild because S.H.U.S.H. wanted to make sure I had ‘backup’ in case of an emergency. Like I’d ever need their help.”

“Can _I_ meet them?” Gosalyn asks. 

Drake falters, biting down on an instinctual and vehement _no._ It would be shameful to admit that he wants to keep Gosalyn away from the rest of the world where he knows she’ll be safe. She’s been deprived of so much already, just by virtue of being a gargoyle: family, friends, daylight. There are people out there who would hurt her, experiment on her, lock her away, and not just the ones who took her grandfather. The Justice Guild, made up of earnest Greek gods and well-intentioned scientists, may be the only people on the planet that he knows with absolute certainty would accept Gosalyn the way she is.

And that’s part of what terrifies him. She needs his help for now, needs his protection, but at some point he’ll find out what happened to her grandfather, for good or ill, and she’ll want to leave. She’ll want to leave and see the world and meet new people and he won’t be able to stop her, not if it makes her happy. 

Keeping people at arm’s length is how he’s stayed alive all these years, but it is a cruel lesson to impart on a child. 

Gosalyn’s watch beeps, saving him from having to answer. 

“Oh, hold that thought,” she exclaims, hopping out of her seat and taking her dirty dishes to the sink. “Spongebob’s on TV.”

“You’ve scheduled your watch for Spongebob?” he remarks incredulously. 

“Duh!” she responds, already halfway to the TV nook he carved out for her in his library. Drake watches her go with quiet fondness before continuing to reassemble his gas gun with rapid efficiency. He can’t allow further distractions when he has an investigation to work on.

Once that’s done and the gas gun has been stowed in his weapons cabinet (now equipped with a child lock) he ascends to the platform housing his main computer, a.k.a. The Big Computer Gosalyn is Not Allowed to Touch. 

He pulls up his research on Steer Images, conducted a little over a year ago when he was looking into potential money laundering fronts for the Fearsome Five. His investigation had stalled out, but not before he found record of large sums of money, upwards of seven figures, being moved into holdings that belong to Quackwerks, the company of which Taras Bulba is CEO and founder. The man himself has never officially been accused of any crime, but that doesn’t mean people haven’t tried. 

Drake periodically accesses the police departments’ accounts to root out corruption within the ranks, and on a few rare occasions he’s found officers with a similar goal. Dozens who have conducted unofficial investigations into Bulba, connecting him to numerous homicides, organized crime, and black market dealings, to name a few felonies. Before any of these investigations could gain traction, every single officer either left the force or simply vanished one day, never to be heard from again. 

Safe to say, Bulba is adept at tying up loose ends. 

Just as he begins reviewing Bulba’s profile (St. Canard-born, PhD in mechanical engineering), his computer screen illuminates with notice for an incoming call. As though summoned from his earlier ire, it’s a priority one message from the Guild, which means W.A.N.D.A. accepts it automatically, deaf to his startled protests. 

Gizmoduck’s smiling visage fills the screen and Drake has to resist the urge to hide under the console until he goes away. 

“DW! I finally got ahold of you!”

“GD!” Drake replies with a painful, pasted-on grin. “Funny, I've been avoiding your calls. I’m a little busy, can this wait?”

“Actually, I was wondering—”

“Fantastic. I’m hanging up now.”

“I’ll make this—I’ll make this quick!” Gizmoduck blurts frantically. His worry is genuine enough to temporarily stay Drake’s hand. “I’ve got a missing persons case I could use your help on. We lost contact with our man in St. Canard over a week ago and we haven’t heard from him since. Nobody knows the city like you do, so—”

Drake has heard enough. More likely than not, Gizmoduck got roped into being McDuff’s errand boy and and has been sent to find some wayward, embezzling accountant. 

“Sorry, Giz, that's gonna have to wait. I’ve dealing with my own missing person’s case right now.”

“O-oh! Really? You know, if you want to let me in on the details, maybe we can help each other out,” Gizmoduck replies, ever hopeful. 

Drake scoffs. “I do my best work without a buddy. Unlike some people.”

“But, Darkwing—”

“Buh-bye, Gizmo,” says Drake, ending the call. 

The feed dissolves, to be replaced by the half a dozen images of Bulba’s leering face he’d pulled up earlier. Quackwerk is behind some of the nation’s bleeding edge technology and often operates outside the scope of the law. If anyone were to kidnap a gargoyle for some mysterious (but certainly nefarious) purpose, it would be them. This may be his best lead for finding Gosalyn’s grandfather. 

At the same time, he knows he can’t tell Gosalyn any of this. She still tries to follow him on regular patrol as it is, and there’s no way she’ll stay in the Tower knowing there’s even the slightest chance of seeing her grandfather again. 

Drake has no idea what sort of danger he’s walking into, but it’s his job to get dangerous. It’s Gosalyn’s job to be safe. 

From further in the Tower, he hears the chatter of her cartoon and resolve settles within him. 

“I’m going on patrol, kiddo,” Drake says, when he pokes his head into the TV room. The lie sits only a little bitter on his tongue. 

Gosalyn is sitting far too close to the television screen, an assortment of books and comics scattered around her and a can of Pep with a straw sticking out of it clasped tightly in her claws. “Okay,” she replies, not looking away from her colorful cartoon. “Don’t come back too late, I’m expecting lullaby 2.0 tonight.”

“How could I forget,” he says glibly. “You’ve got your phone on you, right? Anything happens—”

“Call you,” Gosalyn finishes for him. “I know, I know.”

Drake smiles. Gosalyn has really come into her own since she moved into the Tower, no longer the frightened, wild child he encountered on the orphanage roof. He surmises that having a roof over her head, regular meals, and no longer fearing for her life every day has done wonders for her mental and physical health. 

He turns away from the doorway, slipping his mask over his face and into the persona of Darkwing. 

There’s a clatter behind him but before he can turn around, a small body barrels into his back. He stumbles forward a few steps before he's able to crane his head over his shoulder and look down. Gosalyn wraps her arms tightly around his middle, her expression hidden beneath her riot of curls. 

“Gosalyn, what—”

“Goodbye hug,” she mumbles. 

Drake’s chest twinges. He wills himself to relax into the embrace and gently pats her hands where they’re wrapped around his middle. 

“Hey, I’ll be back soon,” he says, and her grip loosens enough for him to turn and face her. “You’ve got the run of the place while I’m gone. Remember, don’t eat too much junk food and make sure you finish the next lesson in your workbook.”

“Ugh,” Gosalyn replies, smiling. “Nevermind, you can go.”

The Quackwerk building is the second tallest skyscraper in the city after Canard Tower, a looming monolith of glass and steel. With his grappling hook, he rockets up to the thirtieth floor, and even higher still. He's always figured that the more top secret something is the higher up it’ll be, and he hasn’t been wrong yet. 

Somewhere between floor sixty and floor eighty, the wind gets too strong for him to climb any further. He uses a small laser to avoid tripping at alarms, slips inside, and fuses the glass back in place. Only careful inspection will reveal that it had been tampered with at all. 

The hallway he’s entered looks like what he’d find in any regular office building. Ugly carpeting, cheap paintings on the walls, even a big fern in a corner. But Drake knows better than to take anything at face value. 

He breaks into an air vent above him with little difficulty. Inside, the darkness is broken up intermittently by rays of light through grates like the one behind him, though he isn’t going to be too heavily reliant on sight. He activates the thermal imaging setting on his mask and gets to crawling. 

With his auditory enhancers in place, he listens to every conversation he passes in the hopes of gleaning any information as to where they might be hiding a gargoyle. After nearly an hour and scaling a handful of floors, he picks up increased heat signatures. Not human, but machine: a more advanced security system, perhaps. Not long after, he begins to hear voices beneath him. 

“—so much we can still learn from it,” a woman says, her voice strident. “If he gave us another two weeks, or even just one, we could start to crack the nature of the subject’s increased longevity.”

Disabling his thermal imaging, Drake follows along from within the vent, peering down through the grates every few feet at the two people making their way up the hall. The woman is unfamiliar to him, though almost certainly a scientist. She's willowy and wearing a lab coat over a crimson dress. Her black hair is threaded through with silver. The man beside her is short and stocky, with dark, greasy hair and wearing a black pinstripe suit. 

“Don’t look at me, doc. You’ve gotta tell him yourself,” he replies in a nasal voice. 

Recognition strikes Drake with the force of a physical blow. 

Hammerhead Hannigan: stooge to crime bosses everywhere, he’s supposed to be serving a 15-year sentence at St. Canard Penitentiary. Drake knows this because he’s the one who put him there—connected him to a racketeering charge when nothing else would stick. He never received news that Hannigan had broken out, which either means the prison’s been compromised or no one realizes he’s gone.

“Is he back, then?” the woman demands as they stop outside the elevator, directly beneath Drake. 

Hammerhead snickers. “Cut him some slack. You know how much the boss loves playin’ mad scientist. But he’s had to keep up appearances: kissin’ babies, payin’ for fancy hospitals, helpin’ grannies cross the street, the works.” 

“Mr. _Hannigan—”_

“Relax,” Hammerhead snaps, all joviality withering from his tone. “The only reason you’re here running your freak experiments is ‘cause Bulba’s wants you here. Try not to do anything to make him change his mind.”

The elevator doors open, and Drake makes his move. He cuts through the wall of the vent in front of him, giving him access into the pitch black elevator shaft on the other side. Activating his night vision, he slips through the opening and lands lightly on the roof of the elevator just below him. He waits until it begins to rise before he deactivates his night vision and lifts one of the rooftop panels, the fluorescent lighting from within the elevator cutting through the darkness. 

“What the hell?” Hammerhead exclaims. 

Drake swings into the elevator feet first, the heels of his boots colliding with Hammerhead’s face as he reaches for the pistol concealed under his jacket. His head collides with the wall and he slumps to the floor, unconscious. The scientist is snarling at him, remarkably unafraid, until he notices her monster of a robotic arm seconds before it launches itself at the wrist, talons aiming for his throat. Drake dives out of the way, but not before the claw snags a handful of his cape. As her arm retracts, he reaches into his belt for a canister of knockout gas and a respirator mask for himself. 

By the time the elevator stops on the 91st floor, Drake’s two companions have been incapacitated. He steps out with his gas gun at the ready, but the hallway he encounters is empty, albeit wildly different from the ones only a few floors below. 

The walls here are white and featureless, some with reinforced windows looking into empty labs with equipment that beeps loudly and steadily. Beneath him, the floor is similarly stark, made of large white tiles that throw his reflection back at him. In his uniform, Drake stands out like an ink blot on parchment paper. 

But the hallway is silent and empty, as is the one that follows. The machinery he sees seems to get more advanced the deeper he travels, to the point that he thinks even Gizmoduck might have trouble naming some of it. After a few minutes, he comes upon a door unlike the others. Tall and dark blue, both the door and the walls lack any sort of window giving insight as to what might be housed within. With great caution, he pulls it open and peers inside. 

A massive screen embedded in the wall above him displays someone’s vital signs, with last night's date above them: 250 bpm, heart rate 140/90. All unnatural readings, for a human at least. 

Beneath the screen are counters with all variety of laboratory equipment, and beside them is a raised metal slab, sitting empty but equipped with wrist, ankle, and head restraints no less than two inches thick. The slab is so clean it practically shines under the halogen lights, save for a rust colored stain that bears a chilling resemblance to dried blood. 

Whoever they’re studying, Gosalyn’s grandfather or not, they’re not being hidden here. Drake turns around, intent on continuing his search. He finds himself facing a blonde woman in a green pantsuit whose approach was somehow utterly soundless.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” she says in a monotone. 

Startled, he makes a grab for his gas gun. His hand has just closed around the grip when he’s struck in the side of the neck by the paralyzing prongs of a taser. 

Drake catches a brief glimpse of the woman taking a step back before the ground rushes up to meet him. 

  
  
  


“...done, Clovis. And you disarmed him?” 

“Yes, Taras Bulba.”

Drake’s body aches in tune with his heartbeat, reaching a crescendo of pain in his temples. When he manages a few sluggish blinks, his vision swims under a harsh white light, and the sound of voices reach him as though from a great distance. He’s hunched over in a metal chair, his wrists zip tied to either chair arm. 

He’s still wearing his mask, which means they don't care about who he is or they already know. He's not sure which he prefers. 

“Ah,” says an almost musical, baritone voice. “It seems our guest is awake. Mr. Darkwing, is it?”

“Pleasure's all mine,” Drake grunts as he lifts his head, squinting against the brightness. He’s been placed beneath a spotlight, leaving the rest of the room heavily shadowed. He can’t even tell if Taras Bulba is the only other person in the room. 

“You don’t think this interrogation is a little too comic book?” he asks. “Pretty sure I saw this exact scene in a Batman issue when I was a kid.” 

“I was a pretty big superhero fan too,” Bulba admits, slowly circling Drake from the shadows. “Though I've always been partial to Superman.”

“Everybody’s a critic,” Drake mutters. 

Taras Bulba emerges into the circle of light, impressively tall, broad shouldered and bald. The crisp blue suit and red vest he’s wearing are probably worth more than most people’s yearly salary. “I apologize for all of this unpleasantness, but you really left me no choice,” he says, moving to stand behind Drake. “No one else has come as close to discovering my plans as you have.” 

“Aw, don’t beat yourself up,” Drake replies, squinting against the light as the pain in his head reaches a fever pitch. He tries to ignore the ice cold terror racing up his neck at being so wholly vulnerable before Bulba. “It only took me all of one afternoon to figure out what you were up to.”

“Precisely,” Bulba says. He grabs the back of the chair and leans down, speaking just behind Drake’s ear. “And I would like to know what exactly you believe you ‘figured out’ and who you told.”

“My whole team knows about your black market dealings,” he shoots back. “Your shell companies, the mysterious disappearances, all of it. I gotta admit, scientist turned crime boss, you don’t see that every day.”

“So you haven't told anyone.” Bulba chuckles, so close Drake can feel his breath on the back of his neck. “You vigilantes crack me up. Always so willing to fall on your swords. Now, Darkwing, I have one more question for you.” He steps around Drake’s chair to stand in front of him, and the spotlight throws his features into sharp relief, the shadow of his brow making his eyes seem beetle-black and empty. 

“What do you know about gargoyles?” 

Drake blinks. “You mean those things on top of churches?” 

Bulba’s smile is slow to build, a gradual reveal of teeth. He gestures at someone over Drake’s shoulder. 

“I'm sorry about the abruptness, Darkwing,” he says smoothly as he straightens and tugs sharply on one starched sleeve. Drake sees someone step out of the shadows in his peripheral vision. “But I have dinner with the mayor in half an hour. Shall we pick this interrogation up tomorrow morning?”

“Actually my schedule’s booked pretty solid,” Drake says, “Superheroes never sleep and all that. How about I have my people get in touch with your people?”

"Sounds good to me." Bulba nods once at whatever henchman has been advancing on Drake. “Take him,” he orders 

“Boy,” Hammerhead says, stepping out from behind him, “I really wouldn’t wanna be you right now.”

“You and me both,” Drake replies. 

Hammerhead shoves a black sack over his head, plunging his world into darkness. 

  
  


Drake is marched blindly down a series of halls with a gun digging into his back. Hammerhead doesn’t offer any more snide comments after Drake successfully headbutts him, so small mercies. 

After several minutes, Hammerhead stops him with a poke in the shoulder blade. Drake hears the electronic beep of a keypad before a series of heavy-sounding locks clunks open. There’s the hiss of a door sliding open. 

“Snack time, Jumbo,” Hammerhead snaps, his voice more nasal than usual from the broken nose Drake almost certainly gave him.

The sack is yanked off Drake’s head and as he flinches in the abrupt brightness, he’s shoved through the open doorway. He hits the floor hard, unable to break his fall with his hands still bound together with zip ties. The door slams shut behind him, the lock engaging loudly. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not actually going to eat you,” a voice rises out of the cell’s shadowed corner. “I think Hammerhead just likes to joke.”

Drake blinks hard, willing his eyes to adjust faster. Lighting in the cell is sparse, weak fluorescents embedded low in the wall near only to the door. The voice belongs to a shape too warped to be human, and he watches it unfurl before him with dread pressing down on his chest in an icy block. 

Wings fifteen feet wide snap open, and a tail thicker than Drake’s own thigh sweeps the ground. Inhuman orange skin, three-toed feet and knees with curving spurs protruding. A beak instead of a mouth, with a sharp-toothed underbite. 

The beak curves in a gasp. “Oh, no way. You’re Darkwing!”

Drake stops scooting toward the wall before he's even realized he was retreating. “Y-you know me?” 

“Know you?” the orange mass of beak and claws and wings exclaims. “I’m your biggest fan! I can’t believe you found me, Gizmoduck’s the only one who knows I’m supposed to be in St. Canard.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re Gizmoduck’s missing person,” Drake groans. 

The seven foot tall, orange gargoyle grins weakly. “I guess I am.” 

  
  
  
  



End file.
